


Pizza My Heart

by ShfiftyFive



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pizza Place, Coffee Shop AU ajacent, M/M, pizza and pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:53:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21781747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShfiftyFive/pseuds/ShfiftyFive
Summary: The next day, Patrick walked in and pointed to the display case.“I will take one slice.”David sighed.“You want the roasted potato pizza with broccolini and locally sourced goat cheese, garnished with house made chive cream sauce and Italian parsley? Seriously?”“Sounds just pretentious enough.”Or the Pizza Place AU someone specifically asked for.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 30
Kudos: 131
Collections: Schitt's Creek Open Fic Night 2.0





	Pizza My Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madesimplefic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madesimplefic/gifts).



Patrick walked along the main road, shop windows dark and the low hum of cicadas in the summer evening air. 

It was only a few minutes after nine. While he didn’t expect Schitt’s Creek to be exciting this time of night, Patrick thought _something_ would be open on a Friday. He should have listened to Ray when he said the party was “right here” while gesturing to his sectional and 4K HD television.

But even in the dark and empty street, Patrick felt better than he had in months. He felt like he could breathe for the first time in _years_.

Patrick reached the end of the street and was about to turn back when he heard a muffled croon from inside the nearest shop. The opening notes of something familiar strained through the thin windows.

He pressed his face against the glass, peering inside. It was a pizza parlor, shuddered for the night. Chairs were upturned and a bucket and mop were propped in the corner. Mariah Carey’s voice filtered through the empty room. Suddenly, a light flickered on in the back.

A man in a black sweater, tight black pants, and a white apron, stepped into the main parlor. He was tossing a small, round piece of pizza dough back and forth between his open hands. The dough stretched across his wide palms, growing larger and larger. Patrick had never considered pizza making graceful and, yet . . .

Then Patrick noticed his lips moving to the music. Full lips and eyebrows danced along with swiveling hips. The man turned his face toward the ceiling, knees bent as he leaned into the music. He had the most expressive face Patrick had ever seen.

He tossed the dough, high into the air, eyes closed, mouth wide as if performing for thousands instead of an empty parlor.

When he opened his eyes, he spotted Patrick through the window and froze. The dough fell to the ground with a loud smack. Patrick bit his lip, trying not to laugh as the man’s eyes darted around the parlor.

He gathered himself, wiping his hands on the apron and striding over to the front door. Patrick could hear five locks turn and suddenly the door cracked open just enough for the man to peek out.

He was taller than Patrick had expected, staring down at him with sparkling, dark eyes. Patrick’s stomach gave an unexpected swoop.

“Hi,” he said, curt. “Can I help you?”

“No, no. Just passing through the neighborhood,” said Patrick, fighting a smile. “I wasn’t aware that Mariah’s tour was stopping at. . . “ He looked up at the store’s sign, squinting in the dim light. “ . . . Schitt Pizza?”

“We’re in the process of rebranding,” the man cut him off. “Again, can I help you? Or can I please get back to what I was doing so I can wrap it up, pop a pill, and erase the last minute from my memory?”

“Oh, please don’t be embarrassed on my account. I for one think all small towns should be better about offering late-night entertainment. Dinner and a show? You might really have something here . . . ”

“David.”

“David. I’m Patrick.”

“Wonderful.”

The song changed and the two men stared at one another. Patrick took mercy on the man in front of him.

“Well I’ll let you go then, David. I’m sure your fans are demanding an encore.”

“Mm, okay. I think that’s enough public embarrassment for today,” said David, starting to shut the door.

“Goodnight, David,” called Patrick. David just hummed and clicked the door shut, twisting the locks back into place. 

Patrick watched David disappear into the back room, waiting a moment before shoving his hands into his pocket and turning on his heel. 

He whistled to himself the whole way home.

\----

“So he made fun of you?” Stevie asked, as she flipped the chair and slid it beneath the table. “Like, you were just standing here and he looked at you through the window and started to laugh?”

“Not exactly,” said David, picking at his cuticles. He grimaced at his dry nail beds. More oil in the dough would do wonders for his cuticles.

“Okay . . . I’m just trying to understand what this window voyeur did in case I need to like, put out warning signs or call the volunteer police or something.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Well David, you came in this morning in a literal spiral, so excuse me if I have a few questions.”

David looked at his best friend for a moment. He knew he was going to tell her. What was the point in even pretending. He closed his eyes, bringing his hands up to his face.

“I may have been . . . dancing.”

“Oh.”

“And lip-syncing.”

“And lip-syncing,” repeated Stevie, eyes bright and gleeful.

“To Mariah. While working the dough.”

“While working the dough.” Stevie whispered, holding her hand up to her mouth. “Sorry, I’m just visualizing it and I gotta say, this guy sounds like he just got lucky. A free show!”

“Ughhhh.”

The bell over the front door jingled as Alexis walked in, her Schitt Pizza t-shirt tied up in a knot above her belly button.

“What’s going on here,” she said, looking between David’s grimace and Stevie’s delight.

“David gave a special after-hours performance to a new customer last night,” Stevie said, waggling her eyebrows at a horrified David.

“Ew, David! This isn’t Magic Mike,” said Alexis, flipping her hair at David as she passed. “This is a respectable family-run business for the savvy rural foodie.”

“Fall off a bridge. Both of you.”

\----

David boxed up yet another slice of Quadruple Bypass Meat Lovers Pizza, just barely holding back a grimace as he handed it to Bob.

“Enjoy,” he said, eyes scrunched and mouth pursed. 

“Wow, that was almost believable,” said Stevie, stepping out of the back with a fresh pizza piled high with pepperoni, sausage, bacon, ground beef, and slices of yellow processed cheese. She slipped past David and slid the horrifying pie into the display case.

“Okay. Has anyone in this town ever seen a vegetable?” Stevie flipped him off as she headed back to the kitchen. 

Just then, a man walked through the door. David perked up. Their regulars had already come through and a new customer was about as exciting as his day would get. 

Straight-legged denim hugged the man’s thighs a little too well for off the rack, but David was trapped in a podunk town, not dead. David raked his eyes up his torso, taking in his blue button up, sleeves rolled just below the elbows, top two buttons undone revealing a startling pale neck. The man bit back a grin, warm brown eyes danced with laughter—

“Oh fuck,” David muttered.

“Hi,” said Patrick, hesitating in the doorway just a moment before approaching the counter. 

“Wh-what are you doing here?” asked David. He looked back over his shoulder, half-hoping Stevie would save him, half-praying she and Alexa would stay in the back forever. 

“I came for some pizza,” said Patrick. His face was open and friendly, but there was no way to forget their meeting the night before. 

“Right,” said David, hands hovering above the register. “Well, let’s see, will that be one slice of the Triple Threat Pepperoni or two?”

Patrick glanced at the display case.

“Is that my only option?”

David’s eyes darted around the parlor. “No . . . there’s also the Meat Lover.”

David looked up at the ceiling, he could feel his face getting redder. He counted to three before chancing a look. Patrick was too busy looking at the available pizzas to witness David’s embarrassing freudian slip.

“What about this one?” Patrick pointed at a full pizza in the back of the case. 

“Um, really?” asked David, shocked enough to drop his hands and look directly at him. This seemed to delight Partrick to no end.

“Yeah, why not?” David looked between the pizza and Patrick. But he wasn’t laughing. He really did want a slice of crimini mushroom pizza with roasted onions, montalban cheese, mozzarella, baby spinach, pine nuts, parsley, and garlic olive oil.

“It’s just, well, no offense, but you just don’t seem to be the type who would be into that.” 

Patrick looked positively chuffed.

“Threw you a bit of a change-up there, huh?”

“I don’t know what that means,” David muttered, sliding open the display case. 

“You seem disappointed. Is it because you were wrong about me or because that pizza was your lunch?”

“Mm okay, thank you for your patronage,” David said, ringing up the slice and avoiding eye contact.

“So it _was_ your lunch.”

“Okay! This was fun.” David shoved the box into Patrick’s hand and untied his apron. “‘I’m going to go on my break now.” 

“Don’t leave on my account. I’ve got to head out anyway,” said Patrick. “Lots of work to do, pizza to eat, Mariah to listen to.”

David watched Patrick step back toward the door. He reached behind him to twist the handle, eyes still trained on David’s dumbstruck face.

“Bye, David!” Patrick called, the door swung closed behind him as Alexis walked out from the back room carrying her girl boss binder and a stack of flyers for the Schitt Pizza Grand Rebrand Rollout.

“Ew, David. I thought we talked about this. At least wait till noon to start eating your mad scientist pizza creation,” she said, leaning down to poke at the crimini mushroom pizza.

“I—I didn’t! Some man, Patrick, came in a took a slice like some sort of monster.” 

“He stole a slice of your gross mushroom pizza lunch?” Alexis asked.

“Well, he paid for it, but like, who does that.”

“A customer, David,” Alexis said, rolling her eyes. 

David paused. Alexis was right. Patrick just wanted pizza and he happened to have good taste. Or at least more adventurous taste than most people in Schitt’s Creek. Which wasn’t all that impressive consider Roland had been trying to convince David to make something called a Frito Pie the last six months.

It didn’t matter. With that sort of taste, Patrick was sure to be passing through Schitt’s Creek. 

Just then, David’s stomach rumbled. Besides, it was lunchtime. 

\----

The next day, Patrick walked in and pointed to the display case.

“I will take one slice.”

David sighed.

“You want the roasted potato pizza with broccolini and locally sourced goat cheese, garnished with house made chive cream sauce and Italian parsley? Seriously?”

“Sounds just pretentious enough.”

David crinkled his eyes at Patrick as he handed over the boxed slice. 

“You’re extremely sure of yourself.”

“See you tomorrow, David,” Patrick winked and left. Who the fuck winked? 

David and Patrick fell into a sort of routine after that. Each day Patrick would walk in and buy a slice of David’s lunch. And yes, David spent an inordinate amount of time trying to outdo himself with the unusual combinations. But Patrick just seemed to take each iteration as a new challenge.

It was an dumbass game of chicken (Stevie’s assessment of the situation). One that David was enjoying a little too much (Alexis’ assessment of the situation). That is until one evening when David suffered a terrible bout of heartburn from a grapefruit and heirloom tomato pie. his stomach needed a break from the adventurous toppings.

The day after the heartburn incident, Patrick stopped short of the display case. 

“Huh,” said Patrick, his eyebrow quirked as he approached the counter David was standing behind.

“Disappointed?”

“Sort of. Prosciutto seems a bit pedestrian at this point.”

David smirked. 

“Yes, well I may have gone a bit overboard on the acidity yesterday, And l I will have you know this is particularly good prosciutto from a local pig farmer. She only offers it once a year and I wasn’t about to ruin my lunch for the sake of whatever this is,” David said, gesturing between the two of them. “Truce?”

“Sure, David. I accept your olive branch,” Patrick paused and considered him. “On one condition.”

“What’s that?” David asked, already regretting his truce offer.

“Have lunch with me?”

It’s not like the parlor was particularly busy. Over the last few weeks, David had pieced together that Patrick was new to town and probably didn’t know a lot of people. David could be . . . nice. He could have lunch with Patrick. That would be a nice thing to do, right? 

Patrick shoved his hands in his pocket. David was suddenly very aware he hadn’t responded, yet. 

“Yes, I suppose I could take my lunch early,” said David. “Just don’t tell Stevie or Alexis because technically this is still safe to sell to paying customers.”

“I promise, if they say anything I will buy the pizza.”

Thirty minutes later they were still sitting at the table and David was eyeing the last slice of pizza while Patrick explained how he was living and working with Ray. He thought he was casual, but Patrick must have noticed. He nudged the slice toward David while wrapping up his story. 

Then, he grabbed a napkin from the table and wiped his hands, clearing his throat pointedly. David could sense a topic change, but he had already shoved the pizza in his mouth.

“So these pizzas, they’re very impressive,” said Patrick. 

David stared at him awkwardly while trying to swallow around his large bite.

“Thank you,” he said, voice muffled by the baked dough.

“Mind if I ask, what made you start doing this?” he asked, gesturing toward the now empty metal tray covered in crumbs. David forced the bite down with as much dignity as he could muster.

“Well . . . I started making them for myself. They were small and tasteful and the appropriate amount for one person to eat,” David started, only a little defensive. “But Stevie told me I had to at least pretend to make the pizza for customers. I started making them full-sized and, according to food safety at The Plaza, pizza can only stay out for two hours. So I am encouraged to consume said pizza before it needs to be thrown out . . . for safety reasons.”

“At lunch time.”

“No, at noon.” 

“Of course,” Patrick ducked his head, but he was smiling. He looked back at David. “And the ingredients? They seem pretty expensive for a $2.50 slice of pizza. Beet pesto? Locally sourced goat cheese? Mennonite eggs? What makes an egg Mennonite, David?”

“So I may have told some local vendors we would promote their products if they were given to me at cost.”

“Clever,” said Patrick.

“Well it’s not without its challenges. Let’s just say Mr. Huckley’s green herb oil was not simply fancy olive oil. I may have eaten more than one pizza that day.”

Patrick hummed, his mouth turned up at the corner. It seemed like Patrick was always just on the verge of laughing, but the laughter didn’t seem to be directed at David. 

Patrick considered him for a moment. 

“I think you have something here, David.”

“Okay . . .”

“You just need a little help.”

“Um, excuse me, what do you _think_ I have and what kind of help do you seem to _think_ I need?” David asked, a bit more forcefully than he had meant to. But Patrick just leaned across the table, voice low. He looked . . . excited. About something.

“I think you could really sell this pizza.”

“I am selling it,” said David gesturing around the pizza parlor.

“Well, you are selling it . . . to me,” said Patrick, eyes twinkling. “And to yourself.”

Patrick leaned back into his chair and crossed his arms. David couldn’t help but notice the way they flexed as he settled against his chair.

“I think with some marketing you could really get the word out,” said Patrick. “Maybe some free samples at the counter, some new signage, take some ingredient requests, really engage with the public. This is good pizza, David. You should do something with it.”

David wasn’t sure how to respond. He had no interest in engaging with the public. But there was also something nice about having his creativity appreciated by someone. Making one pizza each day for himself was one thing. Something bigger? It was scary, but also exciting.

He could feel his artist muscles begin to flex for the first time in a long while. 

“It might take a little bit of investment capital,” continued Patrick, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a piece of paper. “So I thought you might be interested in this.”

David took the paper from Patrick and scanned the words. It was a pizza contest in Elmdale.

“I thought it could get you some publicity and it comes with a cash prize. Kill two birds with one stone,” said Patrick, biting his bottom lip, considering his next words carefully. “And I would be happy to help however I can.”

“So you’re volunteering to be a taste tester? How noble.” said David, stalling a bit as he read through the flyer a second time.

“Of course,” Patrick said, very seriously. “I can give you the savvy rural foodie perspective.”

“I take it you’ve been talking to Alexis,” said David. He grimaced internally. It wasn’t unusual for men to use him to get close to his sister.

“She may have tried pitching her rebrand project to me at the cafe the other day.”

“Hmm,” David hummed, still looking down at the flyer.

“It was good,” admitted Patrick. “But not as good as this pizza.”

David could feel his face heating up and his mouth quirked to the side, trying to hide his smile. 

\----

“I heard you had a little datey with that button face Patrick,” Alexis said as David counted out the money in the register at the end of the day. “How sweet!” 

Alexis booped David on the nose. He swatted her hand away and had to start counting the money over again.

“It was not a date. He just asked me to have lunch with him to discuss the pizza.”

Alexis leaned in close to David, winking with one and a half eyes. 

“Ugh, will you stop. How did you hear about that anyway?” David asked.

“That would courtesy of Bob,” Stevie butted in, tossing a dish cloth at David.

“Okay, will you please let me count this money in peace? You know I don’t do well with numbers,” said David. “And what does Bob have to do with anything pertaining to me? Because I do not approve of that.”

“Oh David, you must know by now that Bob sees something, he says something, and now here we are, discussing your lunch date.”

“It wasn’t a lunch date.”

“That’s not what Bob said,” Stevie popped.

“Again,” shouted David. “He was here for the pizza. Unlike most of the gremlins in this town, he can appreciate a fine dish.”

“Oh, I think there is a fine dish he wants to appreciate all right,” Stevie called over her shoulder, shutting off the front lights and leaving David to count the money, again, in the dark.

\----

It turned out that “helping” really did mean more than taste testing. The next day, Patrick came by at his usual time, but he brought his laptop with him. When the lunch crowd died down, he showed David a series of confusing charts and tables about things like product margins and marketing spend. 

David stood behind Patrick, peering over his shoulder as he flipped through a series of spreadsheets. He wasn’t totally tracking, but it seemed like Patrick was already spending David’s pizza contest winnings on some sort of revamp of the pizza parlor. The contest he had not competed in yet, let alone won. 

When he pointed this out Patrick’s ears turned red at the tips. 

“I’ve been thinking about this for a bit,” he looked back at David, raising his chin to make eye contact. “I meant it when I said I think you have something.”

David’s breath caught. He suddenly realized how close he was standing to Patrick and he couldn’t help but look down at his mouth, pink lips slightly parted. 

Pizza. He’s talking about the pizza, David reminded himself as he took a step back. He crossed his arms, putting up a physical shield between himself and the warmth radiating from Patrick’s back. He looked back up and found equally warm eyes staring at him. David cleared his throat and stared at the laptop screen, eyes squinting.

“What’s that?” David asked, pointing to a spreadsheet titled simply: David. 

“Oh, that? That’s nothing,” Patrick minimized the document. 

“Uhh, no. You can’t just have something like that up on your computer and not show it to me. I’ve got an overactive imagination. For all I know that’s a to-list for murdering me.”

Patrick barked out a laugh in surprise. 

“What?”

“Yeah, like some sort of single white female scenario.”

“Okay, well in that case, let me try to set your mind at ease,” Patrick reopened the file and turned the computer toward David. 

It was a list of pizzas. David’s pizzas, sorted by date he made them, the ingredients, and some sort of rating system. 

“Okay, this might be worse. What is this exactly,” David gestured toward the screen.

Patrick sighed. 

“I don’t really know,” Patrick wiped his hand down his face. “I tend to do this with information. It helps me...sort through things. Thoughts. It’s weird. I know.”

David leaned back down and scrolled through the list. It was sort of amazing seeing everything he had made in one place.

“I forgot about this one,” said David, pointing to cell B13. 

“I haven’t,” Patrick slid his finger next to David’s, pointing at the rating two cells over. 11/10. “You really hit it out of the park with that one.”

“I don’t know what that means,” David said quietly. 

“I know,” smiled Patrick, eyes flicking between David’s, looking for something. “But it’s good. I promise.”

\----

One month later

David slipped off his apron and hung it by his work station. The judges had already taken his pizza away for scoring and there was nothing to do, but wait.

He found Patrick in the crowd of the veteren’s hall and made his way over, smiling when Patrick saw him and immediately stepped away from his conversation with Bob and Ray.

“Well, that’s done,” announced David, wringing his hands nervously. The last month had been filled with long evenings after work, pouring over business spreadsheets and pizza toppings and repeat viewings of Mystic Pizza because it was “part of David’s process.”

David had spent the first two weeks waiting for Patrick to say “enough” and quit the whole endeavor. Instead he sat beside David, mouthing “I'm gonna slingin' pizza for the rest of my life!” while flipping through various spreadsheets. 

Patrick and Alexis had met a few more times about the rebrand, but nights at the parlour developing the perfect pizza were spent just the two of them. 

David tried not to think about how continuing these nights with Patrick was dependent on winning the contest. Winning meant having the money to move on to phase two. Phase two of the plan. The . . . business plan.

“Congratulations, man,” said Patrick. He opened his arms wide and David held his breath as Patrick’s strong arms enveloped him. David ran his hands across the soft fabric of Patrick’s sweater. He couldn’t help, but hold on a little longer than was strictly necessary.

“David!” Ray called, interrupting what David was fast considering the best hug of his life. Patrick sighed, breath huffing against David’s ear before letting go. “I heard some wonderful rumors about your pizza. I have an in with the inner circle.”

Ray winked at David which was unnerving at best. 

“You know, I have judged the Elmdale Summer Pizza Palooza for the last eight years, but when I heard you were entering I knew I had to excuse myself. I couldn’t endanger my integrity as a judge . . . or as a roommate slash friend.” 

This time Ray winked at Patrick who flushed bright red. Thankfully Ray saw another target to torment and excused himself.

“Hm, I never thought I would say this, but it might have been good to have Ray judging,” said David.

“Well, there’s always a chance my bribe will come through,” said Patrick, stone faced. 

“I know your kidding, but I really sort of wish you weren’t.”

“David, it’s going to be fine,” Patrick grabbed David’s upper arm and squeezed reassuringly. “And even if it’s not, it’s not the end of the world.”

It had been a long time since David had allowed himself to get his hopes up about anything. But the last month had done nothing just create imaginary what ifs. What if they won. What if they made something new together. What if there was something else going on and Patrick would just see it if they had a little more time.

“Well, I suppose you’re right. it’s not the end of the world. Just the end of this,” said David gesturing between the two of them.

“Huh,” Patrick released David’s arm and carefully placed his hands in his front pockets. 

“What?”

“Nothing, I just um . . . well I still think you have something. I was hoping we could . . . I didn’t think,” stammered Patrick. 

“Oh Patrick, that reminds me," Ray returned, nearly giving David a heart attack. "You forgot these on the coffee table. No need to thank me. Any decent human being would know how important these are, today of all days,” Ray held out a pile of small white packets. Patrick grabbed them and closed his fist tight, hiding them from David. 

“Thanks Ray.”

“I saw them sitting there and thought ‘my god, Patrick will need those today!’ This isn’t the sort of stuff you take multiple times a day for several months and then just stop taking. Can you even imagine? Especially considerin—”

“Yup, got it.”

Ray smiled and ducked away.

“What was that about? Are you okay?” asked David, staring at Patrick’s fist.

“Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t I be.”

“I don’t know, maybe because Ray basically implied you might died from consumption if you didn’t have whatever he just gave you.”

“It’s nothing, really.”

“Well it’s just that if I, by some miracle, win this competition? I will need to have you around because I literally have no idea what program you use for all your charts and graphs, let alone where the numbers come from. So if you’re dying of some tragic Dickensian disease, I would really appreciate knowing it up front. It’s only fair.”

“David—”

“I mean if you’re dying,” David continued, swinging his arms and looking anywhere but at Patrick. “you are socially obligated to allude to it in some fashion when engaging in new relationships.”

“David—.”

“Have you not seen A Walk to Remember? ‘You have to promise you won't fall in love with me.’ It’s short, to the point, and, honestly, the least you could do.”

Patrick grabbed David’s arm and held one of the small packets in front of his face. It took a moment for David’s eyes to focus on the blue writing. 

“Lactaid pills?” David asked. “You’re lactose intolerant?” 

“Yeah. Have been since I was five.”

David considered him for a moment.

“Okay. So you going into the pizza business is . . . a choice. That you have made.”

Patrick laughed and rolled his eyes. He held both of David’s arms and took a step closer. 

“David. I really like pizza, okay? I think that pizza is interesting. More interesting than people give it credit for,” Patrick paused and took a deep breath before continuing. “Including pizza’s sister.”

David’s mouth quirked as he tried hiding his sudden smile.

“It’s unique. So unique that I am just about ready to put my two weeks notice in at Ray’s to do a lot more with . . . pizza.”

They were smiling at each other openly now, two idiots who had lost control of their facial expressions.

“I just really like to spend time with pizza,” continued Patrick, so quiet that David had to lean in to make sure he was hearing it all. “Pizza’s worth the small fortune in Lactaid pills and the stomach cramps the few times I forgot them on Ray’s coffee table.”

“Okay, just to be clear. I’m pizza in this scenario?”

“Yes, David. You are pizza.”

“Okay, aside from the part where you compared me to something that literally makes you run for the bathroom, that is quite possibly the nicest thing anyone has ever said about me.”

“You’re pizza with the good prosciutto and extra cheese.”

“Okay, you have to stop or you are going to make me cry.”

Patrick tugged him closer until their toes met and Patrick’s arms came up around David’s waist. 

“Don’t cry pizza boy, don’t cry.”

David huffed, mixing romcom reference was not correct, but he was cut off by the soft touch of Patrick’s lips. He pressed close, wrapping his arms around Patrick’s shoulders. Patrick parted his lips to deepen the kiss. 

A woman called the contestants to return to their stations. David pulled back, but Patrick followed, chasing his lips, moaning softly when they reconnected. 

“Mmm,” responded David, pulling back a little more. “Find something you like?”

Patrick’s eyes fluttered open, shining like it was the first day of summer and David was the sun. 

“What can I say? I really like pizza.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! It's been a hot second since I've written any fic and I am woefully out of practice. Come yell with me about season 6 on Tumblr at [talldecafcappuccino](https://talldecafcappuccino.tumblr.com/)


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